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Monthly Archives: March 2015

Wicked headwind, rain, hail, lambs cavorting at 8.5miles and N doing similar to restore my lost equanimity at same point. I lost a lot of energy fighting the wind, and thus we were slow. But there was no stitch, no walking, no giving up and a nice cuppa tea and a slice of cake at the end.

So we’ll call that a win and would do it again as it was a nice route.

It was rather brilliant. We got up stupid early to go for a run along the canal (a very slow run, after the weekend’s exertions) and saw the odd duck and the even odder moorhen. N pootled off to work, I met a potential new Brownie helper in my favourite cafe and had tea and cake, and then there was a lot of vegetating on the sofa with Sherlock and knitting. I got a fairly good quantity of R’s wedding stole done, and thoroughly enjoyed myself as a lazy lady of leisure. Dinner at Veeraswamy with my parents and I ate far too much: I had to sit up a little in order to digest sufficiently to sleep.

And, the rest of the week was rather good too. I’ve clarified communications and hopefully tied up a Brownies crisis. I had a bonus Brownies meeting and we were visited by the local police. The Brownies were chiefly concerned with finding out how old they had to be before they could be left home alone (there is no legal age, it turns out, as long as the child is not deemed to be at risk of harm) and trying on hats, handcuffs etc.

Last night we went to a museum late at the Natural History Museum for D’s birthday. We saw a former member of Take That but he wasn’t as interesting as the dinosaurs, dikdiks, birds, whales, wild boar, elephants and so on. Not all the museum was open, but it was enough for a couple of hours and it was vastly more civilised than London Zoo’s late night opening. Fewer idiots running round in animal onesies, and no hard liquor. I wonder if the Science Museum does lates? It was lovely to be able to play on the exhibits without small children wanting a turn! I particularly liked the TRex. D’s husband said he reckoned he could take it on and defend us all. Bless.

I am sure I could have found the 4 seconds that would have made a PB. And I was in pieces when I crossed the line, because I was so close. And, it didn’t matter how much I tried not to care, and tried to be proud of myself, there is still a bit of me that is disappointed.

It was a challenge. I woke at 2am with hideous stomach cramp, took painkillers, went back to sleep, but felt at a low ebb as a result. By the time we’d made it to 10 miles, I was exhausted. So I had a gel. I should have had it before the hill, or after the hill, but not during the hill, as I promptly gave myself a stitch, and it all rather went to hell in a handcart after that. Not my fastest half marathon. Not my slowest, either, but frustrating as I knew I could do better. It was lovely running through Wembley Stadium (and, on Tuesday, I met one of the ladies who’d been playing in the brass band at the stadium!), but the rest of the route was, frankly meh. I don’t think we’ll be entering the North London Half again, even if the goodies and tech top were good. It’s not about the goodies – it’s about the route (which is why Leith Hill is definitely on the “let’s do that again!” list).

Then out to Windsor (took about two hours, with a bus diversion, another half mile jogging to get to the station on time, and a swift bit of eyelash fluttering to get out of a penalty fare at Slough Station. I’m almost forty, and yet I’m wailing that “Mum’s gonna kill me if I don’t get there on time” with a great quantity of verve and believability. I hate myself for this). We had super tea in the Christopher Wren Hotel. Gorgeous sandwiches. Gorgeous cake. Fabulous Scone. Clotted cream! Worth the epic trip.

The challenge continued through the week. Monday night we hied out to Farnham to see the financial advisor, who was lovely (I need to set up a budget spreadsheet when I feel a bit braver), and who advised us about mortgages. It took forever to get out to Farnham, and even longer to get back, and I was shattered by Tuesday.

And Tuesday was a funeral. By this point, I was feeling extremely hormonally challenged, and was profoundly grateful that my former colleagues are mad as a box of frogs (sample conversation “so, yes, that was when we were doing charlie in Downton Abbey”), and the chaps simply take turns in buying us all drinks. I had a lot of lemonade before and afterward. Tonibunny had a lovely funeral, and she will be very well missed. I’d gone because I’d worked with her husband, and because funerals are for the living. The church was full, the flowers were beautiful, the hymns were familiar, and it didn’t rain. We wore our brightest clothes, and I had a lovely hat. A sad day, an exhausting day, but not a particularly depressing day. Still. By the end of the afternoon, I was trying to use my front door keys to get out of the tube, and I still had Scouts-and-Guides to go to. We had a lovely dancer visiting for St Patricks day, and a hideously complicated craft involving dancing leprechauns. While taking patients back to the wards, we encountered a lost leprechaun leg. This was traumatic. I failed to eat a proper meal all day.

Wednesday was morris. And visiting one of my units, which needed a little moral support after a mild contretemps the week before. Oil was poured on troubled water, the Brownies had a lovely time sewing constellations, and I ate an heroic quantity of sushi afterwards. By the time I got to morris, I was an hour late, and had run out of brain. So, naturally, we did the most complicated dance last, and I nearly fell to pieces (but merely fell out of the set a couple of times). It’s a good thing I’d had a guinea-spud for supper, as I’d probably have collapsed by that point.

Thursday was a write-off. I failed to get anything right at work, and stopped trying so that I didn’t create so much chaos that the world came to an end. My minion dealt with the delicate stuff. I dealt with trying to stay awake. Bizarrely, I started to revive a bit in the evening, and we had a lovely run after I’d met another leader for moral support. It was possibly the tea and cake that did it. Or the fact that my hormones pulled their lives together….

Friday I went on a super course, then went for a Posh Quiz. I am now of the “older generation” from the organisers’ perspective. I can’t say that it helped me gain any perspective. The boorish behaviour I witnessed did not give me any hope for the future. I was variously described as “the most giving person I know” and “Margaret Thatcher reincarnate” – the latter because I marched down the stairs, looking commanding, in a royal blue dress (the same as I’d worn on Tuesday, with the same 4″ black patent stilettos, and fishnets), in a manner not seen since MT had last done that. If nothing else, I do know how to play that particular game…but I do not enjoy it, and I’m not really sure I ever did. I wanted to change the system from the inside, but, when one is dealing with real life caricatures, it’s a little tricky. The Quiz was fun, last year’s winners won, and, since they were hosts, I was asked to present the silver platter. I can’t complain too much: although some of the company wasn’t what I would have chosen, it was rather fun being fawned over a bit (there really aren’t that many women around in that particular bastion), the food was superb with lamb shank where the meat simply fell off the bone – and we were served first (being aulde phartes), and the wine and port good. A lift back to Waterloo from the Dishy Barrister made getting home vastly simpler, as I didn’t need to stagger too far in those shoes: and I encountered a literary Irish drunk on the tube. He recommended Fight Club. I recommended James Herbert’s Rats (he’s finished Silence of the Lambs, and has American Psycho in his eyes). It made for an amusing conversation while I was still several sheets to the wind – and I still think I deserve some sort of recognition for not only making it onto the Northern Line safely, but also making it onto the Northbound platform on my first attempt, and thus not ending up somewhere like Tooting…. the Dishy Barrister is the gentleman who feels that I’m the giving person – it’s a combination of guiding, doing websites for people, and volunteering. Bless. I don’t feel it makes me particularly giving. At times, I think it makes me particularly selfish.

Very small hangover this morning. Went and volunteered at parkrun. Got sticky coffee. Got a colouring book. Came home. Did supermarket shop. Got newspaper. Got sacrificial tops for tomorrow (it’s going to be COLD). Had hair done. Nearly fainted at bill. N is now cooking supper, and I think it’s virtually ready. I need to rescue the laundry. And an early night is suggested tonight.

I shall be following the weather forecast anxiously. It’s a shame, as today’s forecast is perfect for running. But. Here is as much of tomorrow’s as I can see on the phone. Doesn’t really inspire confidence, does it?

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I must work out how we get to the start. Knowing the appropriate tube station is a good start, but a little vague. Other things to do today (I’m skiving parkrun as I fell off the list of volunteers and I do want a lie in of sorts)

Pay in cheques

Guidemin (DBS lists, VSU advert)

Sew buttons into cardigan, mend cardigan, mend coat

Buy card for Tawny Owl and Spring Onions for soup

Meet Tawny Owl for cake

Instructions for website updates

Sort appointment for name changing at banks (it’s never ending with all the blinking Brownies ones)

Change sheets after unfortunate incident involving supper in bed and escaping balsamic vinegar. Am sleeping in a Rosachct (cannot spell) blot test and I had the weirdest dreams last night.

This will be utter luxury, as long as I don’t fall asleep on the sofa: it has been a somewhat long week, with a degree of relentlessness at work. It all kept going, with people wanting stuff done (funny how people so often want things done, isn’t it). There were only two guiding related crises, and, really, one of those was actually drama rather than crisis. Still tiring though. I went to yoga today. I pity my poor claasmates, who had to listen to the awful noises my shoulders made as I twisted them into various positions. A tough, sweaty class. Needed. Not the most mindful practice I’ve ever done, but it hit the spot and helped.

And then Terry Pratchett died on Thursday: wonderful, clever, funny man. I was reading his last book at 3am (I’d woken up in a panic about the Spare Division Knickers. Of all the things I have ever woken up panicking over, this really wins as being the most stupid). Thursday found the entire office at a Low Ebb. Friday, and Freda’s been killed off on The Archers (and Scruff the dog is still MIA). Poor Freda. Never a line of dialogue and then a sudden heart attack off speaker.

I ought to be volunteering at parkrun this week, but, for some reason, I’ve not been written down. So I shall have a lie in instead. And maybe a long hot bath. Such bliss. The laundry is done, the Ocado ordered. All I need to do is gaze at my new Photobox Albums, do a little bit of guidemin, collect a parcel and that’s it for Saturday. Sunday is another half marathon. I’m beginning to feel a little blaisé about them. Which will probably cause chaos as I get too full of myself.

Here. Have a photo of me at the half way point, having run 6.5 miles mostly uphill. Some of it at a walk. Natch. 2 hours 25 mins and 37 seconds for the Leith Hill Half, and I will definitely do it again. Great route, great fun, and I think I could do it a bit faster.

If you would like to sponsor me, I can email the deets. Hint: I have a birthday in about a fortnight and I’d love sponsorship over stuff!